


pictures of you, pictures of me

by mondaycore



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Dick Pics, F/M, Humor, M/M, Sexting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-31
Updated: 2020-03-31
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:52:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23276554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mondaycore/pseuds/mondaycore
Summary: “Hey, what do you know about … taking pictures?” Lando asks tentatively, halfway through the eighth game of FIFA 19.
Relationships: Lando Norris/Carlos Sainz Jr, Lando Norris/OFC (Background)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 177





	pictures of you, pictures of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [singlemalter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/singlemalter/gifts).

> my excuse is that this seemed much funnier when i was writing it at [checks edit history] 2:26am.
> 
> this one’s for you, malter — happy happy birthday, pal! i’ve been absent of late and idk when i'll return BUT i obviously had to give you a gift. appreciate you always, buddy!
> 
> this is, of course, all fiction. please do not share outside of ao3. title by the last goodnight.

“Hey, what do you know about … taking pictures?” Lando asks tentatively, halfway through the eighth game of FIFA 19. 

From the other end of the couch, Carlos makes a noise of consideration, though he’s still mostly focused on the television. It’s a lazy off-day, and they’re well into their usual slacker ritual of playing video games and eating snacks that will most certainly get them yelled at by their trainers and nutritionists — an innocent enough environment for Lando to surreptitiously fish for advice about a certain problem that's been weighing heavily on him for the past few days.

Innocent enough, or so he’d assumed.

“A little bit,” Carlos says, intently tracking his virtual team as they scramble around the digital soccer field to his frantic controller button-mashing. “Yes, yes, _ ¡vamos! _ — but I'm not an expert. You should talk to the paddock photographers if you really want tips. It’s nice that you are looking for a new hobby, though.”

“No, wait, not those kinds of pictures, I mean,” Lando stutters, and oh God, how has it gone so sideways already, “like, taking_ pictures_.”

“Yes, like, photography?”

“_Pic-tures_,” Lando says, trying his best to telepathically communicate his meaning without having to say it out loud. He tosses his wrist in a halfhearted gesture meant to stand for — _ that,_ the act which is typically the subject of the pictures in question, God, like literally any other adult human being would have picked up on his meaning by now — but Carlos just tilts his head like a beautiful, confused Iberian cocker spaniel and furrows his brow, finally looking away from the video game. “Whatever! Never mind.”

“No, hey, I want to know,” Carlos says. He pauses the game to indicate that he’s serious, sets his controller down, and turns to Lando.

It’s right about now that Lando realizes he’s committed two huge tactical errors. One: he should have known that he’s awkward enough that bringing this up could not _ possibly _have ended well. Two: Carlos now has that look in his eye specifically reserved for when his car’s acting up and his engineers are being cagey with him as to why. The look that means he’s not going to let this go until he finds a satisfactory answer.

“Explain it to me, Lando. What do you mean, _ pictures? _”

“_I MEAN SEXY PICTURES,_” Lando shouts, for some reason, because his brain apparently has decided that raising his speech volume might somehow lower his embarrassment level — which it doesn’t, thank you very much. A for effort, F for execution.

Carlos looks at him blankly. Lando can almost see the “dawning realization in: three, two, one” timer go _ ding! _ and then the conversation is put on hold for long enough that Lando has the opportunity to raid Carlos’ pantry for more snacks to soothe his injured soul as Carlos curls up on the couch, incapacitated with laughter.

“Okay, okay, hold on,” Carlos says, after he’s recovered, though he’s still gasping a little and wiping tears from his eyes, “why are you trying to take sexy pictures, Lando?”

“Never mind, it’s none of your business,” Lando grumbles, his mouth full of emotional support cookies. He grumpily dusts the crumbs he’d sprayed off his shirt and pants and decides that Carlos can deal with food debris on his couch as revenge for being so _ insensitive_. 

“Wait, no, I’m sorry for laughing at you, really, but it sounded like you had a question for me, no? You asked me if I knew anything about _taking_ _pictures_,” Carlos says, dragging it out innuendously, and he still very clearly barely biting back laughter, “which means _you_ don’t know how. Yes?”

“God, fuck you so very much,” Lando mutters, because Carlos is _ right_, of couse, when _ isn’t _ he, but having been exposed now, he just sounds creepy for having asked. He sighs and takes the metaphorical shovel in hand, preparing to dig himself deeper because what _ else _can he do at this point. “Look, there’s this girl, okay — ”

“Anyone I know?” Carlos interrupts, the nosy bastard.

“No!” he says, emphatically. Of that, he’s certain. Carlos hangs out with the likes of duchesses and baronesses. He probably has his pick of anybody from here to East Bumblefuck to _ take pictures _ with. He wouldn’t be slumming it with the sorts that Lando hangs out with. “We met in the paddock last weekend, and we’ve been talking, and … ”

Lando’s not even entirely sure this girl isn’t out to just starfuck him and be on her way with a fun story for her friends and/or to chum the tabloid waters with — though it would hardly be the _ worst _ scandal an F1 driver has ever been implicated in, surely, and also Lando highly doubts that’s even the case. They’ve been chatting, and she genuinely doesn’t strike him as the type. It seems like she wants to keep it as casual and lowkey as he does. Besides, even if she does turn out to be just a groupie, the fact that he’s now famous enough to be a starfuck instead of a standard hookup is a good enough consolation prize. It’s like being important enough to be assassinated, instead of just murdered. It’s a sign that he’s _ made it_, baby.

Or something.

“And now you’re going to send her _ pictures?_” Carlos scoffs. “_Dios._ Romance _ is _ dead.”

“She _ asked _for them! Also, why are you saying this like you’re fifty? You’re only five years older than me.”

“Yes, but unlike some people, I was raised correctly."

“Shut up, don’t tell me you’ve never sent a _ picture_.” 

“Of course I have. I know a lot about _that _kind of photography," Carlos scoffs, which _totally _doesn’t make him a hypocrite or anything, and wow, it _definitely _doesn’t make Lando feel any kind of way _at all_, trying to imagine what Carlos’ sexts might look like, “but only after I’ve taken my lovely date out to a nice restaurant, and maybe to a show, and bought her flowers, or maybe some chocolates … ”

“Well, she lives in a different country, so there’s no chance of that,” Lando says, curling into himself on the couch and wrapping his arms around his knees defensively. “We agreed to start with _ pictures _ tonight and see where it went from there. But … ugh.”

“But you want to impress her, and you don’t know how, because you don’t know how to _take pictures_,” Carlos says, hitting the nail bang-on the head again. Lando nods miserably. And then, in what is quite possibly the most inopportunely timed move in all of human history, his phone chimes with a text message.

> _ > hiiii lando _

Carlos snaps his attention to Lando’s phone at the sound of the notification. 

“That’s her, isn’t it?” he leers, off the look on Lando’s face.

Lando stares uncomprehendingly for a second before he realizes, oh, right, it might be late afternoon where he is, but she’s a few timezones away, and it’s already night where she’s at. She’s probably ready for some … recreational bedtime photography.

“Alright,” Lando says, slowly uncurling himself from where he’s been glued to the couch for the past few hours. “I think I’m gonna go now.” 

“Wait,” Carlos says. “What about your problem?”

“Yeah, that’s why I’m leaving,” Lando says, “to figure out my _ problem_.”

“_Cabrón_, don’t be stupid,” Carlos says. Lando starts to protest, but Carlos cuts him off and declares, with all the certainty of a God-granted mandate, “obviously, I’m going to help you take your pictures.”

Lando nearly fumbles his phone. 

“Obviously _ what?” _ he screeches, his heart lurching in his chest. He genuinely sees his entire life flash before his eyes for a second.

“Listen. _ Think_,” Carlos says, tapping the side of his head with a finger. “You have one shot with her, yes? And if you mess it up, you are going to sulk for weeks and whine so much and be worse at FIFA than you already are, and Zak and Charlotte and Andreas are going to blame me for making you sad, like they always do — ”

“Wait, they do that?”

“— so, I help you impress your lady friend to save my own sanity, and then you can owe me forever.”

_ No_, Lando thinks. _ Absolutely not. _ What Carlos is proposing is quite possibly _ the _ stupidest idea he’s ever heard in Carlos’ long history of dumbass ideas, and Lando is about to tell him as much, except his phone buzzes again.

> _ > so  
_ _ > whatcha doin ;) _

“God_ damnit_,” he swears, fervently. The little winky face emoji sits there in the text bubble like a landmine waiting to detonate. 

“Good, I’m glad we’re agreed,” Carlos says, even though Lando didn’t remember agreeing to anything. “Now, text her back before she falls asleep.”

Lando sighs. He picks up his phone. Puts it down. Picks it up again and looks at it. Swipes the notification. Puts his fingers to the screen.

> _ > just chilling  
_ _ > thinking of you _

A full minute goes by. The longest goddamn minute of Lando’s life. They huddle over his phone in anticipation, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder, close enough together that Carlos’ hair tickles at the side of Lando’s neck.

> _ > aw, that’s so sweet  
_ _ > show me _

“Ooh. She’s forward. I like that,” Carlos says. “Okay, now we are having this show on the road. But we need a good setting for this. Living room is too messy.”

Carlos yanks him off the couch by the arm, shepherds him down the hall of his absurdly nice apartment, and gently hip-checks him into the bedroom. He digs through his dresser, pulls a pair of sweatpants out, and tosses them at Lando.

“Take your shirt off and change into this.”

“Why?”

“Because you have Cheeto dust all over your jeans, Lando, which is not very sexy of you,” he says, in a tone of infinite patience. “And besides, these will just work better. Trust me.”

Lando sighs and starts wriggling out of his pants. He’s got them halfway down his thighs when he and Carlos come to the same realization.

“What are _ those?” _ Carlos all but shrieks.

“NOWAITDON’TLOOK!” Lando yells at the same time, jamming his hands in front of his crotch to cover up the bright purple cat-print underwear that Alex had gotten him as a gag gift for his birthday. He feels his face go hot. “Okay, nope, I’m leaving, bye.”

He whirls around to make a beeline for the door, forgetting in his mortification that his jeans are now pooled around his ankles, and promptly trips and stumbles and eats it right onto Carlos’ admittedly very nice, very plush carpet — no bruising except to his ego, but _ that’s _ already damaged beyond repair, so, no real loss there.

“You were going to send her pictures wearing _ that? Jesuchristo, _do you have no respect for women?”

“Just because I didn’t have time to do laundry this week doesn’t make me a bad feminist or whatever,” Lando protests, muffled into the carpet. He’s abruptly blanketed in darkness, and for a minute he thinks it’s the ground, in all its mercy, swallowing him whole and ending his misery, until he realizes Carlos has thrown something else right at his face.

“Change into those, too,” Carlos says. Lando squirms his way up to sitting and holds up the pair of plain underwear he’d been given.

“I don’t think — ”

“_Change_, Lando,” Carlos repeats, more assertively — a command instead of a request — and for some reason Lando really doesn’t want to dwell on, it sends him instantly scrambling to comply. 

“Can you, like — ”

“Oh, now he’s shy,” Carlos mutters, making a big show of turning his back on Lando and occupying himself with adjusting his blinds so that the late-afternoon sun streams across the bed at some ideal angle and brightness known only to him. Lando quickly strips and changes into his new wardrobe. It’s obscenely nice clothing, of course — the underwear is actual silk or something, and the sweatpants aren’t standard sweatpants material, but something much softer and finer where it clings to his skin. What is it like to have _ taste_, Lando wonders. 

“Alright,” he mutters. “Now what?”

Carlos turns around and gives him an appraising look, then strides over and gently tugs at his pants, settling them a little better on his hips, and pulls the drawstring cord on his pants until they're even. Lando resists the overwhelming urge to roll his eyes.

“Good, now get on the bed,” Carlos says. “We need to make it look like you actually have been lying around doing nothing.”

Lando flops onto the bed — onto, of course, hundred-thousand-million thread-count sheets or whatever, smooth and sleek and cool against his shoulders — and does his best to look splayed out in a casual but appealing way, _ oh, no big deal, I always lie around half-naked wearing runway-grade loungewear in bedrooms that look right out of Modern Architecture Monthly. It’s a lifestyle, not a hobby_.

Except Carlos, casting a critical eye over the scene, frowns disapprovingly, and starts physically _ arranging _Lando, adjusting the positioning of his arms, his shoulders, bending his legs just so, unbending them a little.

“You know, we could just grab a can of Red Bull and call it a day,” Lando grumbles.

“What? What does Red Bull have to do with it?”

“Like, some guys, _ so I hear_, will kinda hold their, you know, up to a can for like, comparison purposes — ”

“Who did you _ hear _ this from,” Carlos says flatly. “Daniel? Max?”

“No! I mean, it doesn’t have anything to do with Red Bull. It can be a can of _ anything _ … ” Lando says, trailing off as his limited knowledge of the topic runs out. The only reason he knows this at all is because he was once the very unfortunate accidental recipient of an even more unfortunate _ picture _ from George, meant for Alex — and that’s an image he _ still _hasn’t bleached out of his mind’s eye — but he’s not about to admit that and give Carlos any more ammunition against him or his friends.

“I think it is a breach of contract if you use Red Bull,” Carlos muses, and Lando thinks, wait, Carlos has a _ point, _and then stops himself and reflects on the path he’d taken in life that this is something he has to seriously consider.

His phone pings again.

> _ > taking your time, huh  
_ _ > you better make this worth the wait _

“Come on, hurry up,” Lando says, making a valiant effort to text back while having his limbs placed this way and that like an artists’ mannequin. He squirms as Carlos’ hands skim confidently over his bare skin.

“Then stay still and let me work,” Carlos says, slapping him on the thigh sharply. Lando goes stock-still as if electrified, afraid to even breathe, suddenly tingly and hypersensitive all over. Carlos fusses with the covers a little, tossing them half-over his legs, then stands back and nods. “Alright. Put your hand on your hip. Left a little, no, _ other way, _ little more. And flex a little, _ Jesuchristo_, it’s like you don’t _ want _to impress her. Okay. Take the picture.”

Feeling entirely foolish and not the least bit sexy, Lando holds his phone up with his free hand, tries to frame the scene in a way satisfactory to the resident art director hovering at his shoulder, and clicks the shutter button a few times. It’s difficult because he can’t even see his phone screen at the angle he’s at, but when Carlos snatches his phone from him and flicks through the photos, he hums in satisfaction.

“Not bad,” Carlos says. “Send the second one.”

The thumbnail pops up in the chat. It’s a little nerve-wracking, not having the usual silly filters and stickers to hide behind, but Lando has to admit, he looks … kind of good. It looks like he’d woken up from a nap, with the sheets and covers rumpled around him. Golden sunlight slants across his torso, dipping into shadow at the cut of his chest and belly and hips, framing his hand where his fingers play at the waistband of his pants. It’s inviting, but not too much.

On a burst of bravado he’ll definitely cringe at in retrospect, he adds:

> _ > worth the wait? _

The reply comes almost immediately.

> _ > not sure …   
_ _ > let’s see a little more ;) _

"Oh, God. She wants a dick pic, that totally means dick pic, she wants to see the D,” Lando groans.

“Well then,” Carlos says, crossing his arms. “Get yourself hard.”

Lando chokes and drops his phone on his face.

“_Excuse me? _” he squeaks.

“Come _ on,_” Carlos says, rolling his eyes heavenward. “She is interested, and clearly she wants more. So, next step, we give her what she wants. What is the problem here?”

_ The problem here _ is Lando’s pretty sure that jerking it in front of your friend-slash-coworker, no matter how contrived but well-justified the context is, is the line in the sand between being able to wave this off as “haha, bros being bros, amirite” and — well, something much harder to excuse-weasel his way out of. And he _ already _ has no good explanation for why his heart rate has kicked up double-time, or why he feels so fidgety and hot at the very thought.

“No problem,” Lando lies, through clenched teeth, because he really, _ really _ wants to do this for this girl, and he’s _ going to_, all weird and dangerous thoughts currently brewing in his mind about Carlos be damned.

“Well, then. _ Vamos. _ Do it,” Carlos says, using the _ voice _again, and Lando bites back an incriminating noise and slides his hand down his pants.

He closes his eyes and does his very best to think about long hair, lipstick, high heels, short skirts — but his mind keeps wandering to Carlos' earlier comment about his apparent extensive experience in sending _pictures _and the way he'd ordered Lando around with such confidence. And then it's all downhill from there, and he can't stop himself wondering how Carlos might do this, what kind of pictures he sends, if he's ever lain sprawled on his bed like this, texting one-handed, his other hand wandering — and _that _mental image, holy shit, revs him right up, gets him all the way there in _ record _ fucking time.

“Okay, enough,” Carlos says, and even though Lando’s at the point he’d rather not stop, it’s as if there’s a direct line from Carlos’ mouth to Lando’s brain, and his hand stills as if bewitched. Carlos looks down at him like a chessmaster planning a devastating checkmate. It's not fair how calm and _ composed _ this bastard is when Lando is basically a puddle of stress and arousal right now. “Now grab it from over your pants.” 

“If you’re going to micromanage my dick, you can at least say _ please_,” Lando says, with a rising edge of hysteria in his voice, though he does what he’s told, because. “Why are we even _ doing _this?”

“Well, a race is not just one lap, yes? You need to build some anticipation. Set yourself up for the best result. And you need to give your lady friend something to work with. She’s trying to do her thing, too, that is the whole point of these _ pictures_,” Carlos says, and Lando whines a little in the back of his throat when he thinks about what his _lady friend_ must be up to, halfway across the world. A low heat flares to life, deep in his belly.

Carlos takes advantage of Lando’s temporary brain short-circuit to swoop in and adjust the positioning of Lando’s arm, his wrist, the angle of his legs — _ again_. Lando knows better than to move around this time, but it’s _ hard_, with Carlos looming over him, solid and warm, close enough to touch, to grind up against, if only he shifted his hips just a little —

“_Eso es_,” Carlos says, stepping away. Whether it’s a mercy or a disappointment, Lando doesn’t even know at this point. “Take the picture.”

Lando lets out what is definitely not a whine, puts his phone up, takes a few pictures, and sends the one he is instructed to send. He feels a right idiot, grabbing his dick through his pants and showing it off, but once again, he has to concede that Carlos knows what he’s doing. Instead of looking like the CEO of Douchebags International, he projects a certain cocky confidence, with his thighs splayed and one knee bent up, and a, um, decent handful, of his, uh, assets, so casually on display.

He also gets why Carlos made him wear sweatpants, now. Yeah. Good call.

It's kind of … turning him on, if he's being honest, this swaggering macho persona he’s embodying in the photo — like _yeah, I know I'm hot shit, you should see what I'm packing — _which is weird in a way he can’t even begin to explain, and probably prosecutably narcissistic, and it’s definitely not helping him keep his cool, not when he’s as keyed-up as he is already.

The text comes back nearly immediately. 

> > 😳👅💦

“What does this mean? Is it good?” Carlos demands, and Lando has to laugh, because this guy really _ is _ a fifty-year-old stuck in a body half that age, no matter what he says.

> _ > omg you’re such a fucking tease  
_ _ > come on, keep going … _

“Alright, she thinks it’s good,” Carlos says, nodding very seriously. Lando gets the thought that Carlos is getting some sort of validation of his photography skills out of this whole thing, and he really doesn't know how to feel about that, but at least Carlos is getting _ something _out of this, right? Because he’s still standing there, cooler than cool, ice-cold, alright, alright, like he’s finding this a fun little diversion while Lando is like, crawling out of his goddamn skin. “So.”

“So,” Lando says, high and strangled and, absurdly, gives Carlos a thumbs-up — because his thrusters are still set at maximum awkward, he supposes. But he doesn’t bother protesting because at this point, he knows the drill, and he’s way too worked up to be hesitant any longer. He shoves his borrowed pants and underwear down just far enough to pull his dick free and raises his phone, dying to get this over with already so he can flee somewhere safe to wallow forever in mortal humiliation and sexual confusion.

“No, no, wait,” Carlos says. Lando groans in frustration. “Better if you move your hand a little — no, down a little, turn your wrist — no, like _ this_.”

And that is when he reaches down and bats Lando’s hand aside and honest-to-God _ grabs his dick _ to show him the right way to do it. Lando bucks with the shock, and then forces himself to stay perfectly still with a truly monumental effort of will, curling his hands tightly into the sheets, squeezing his eyes shut, and digging his teeth into his lip to keep himself from losing it right then and there. His heart slams against his ribcage, and every inch of his skin feels like it’s on fire. But Carlos, oblivious as ever, lets go, and Lando hears him say, as if from a very great distance away, “understand?”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Lando breathes, God, talk about _ hands-on demonstration_, and takes one long, deep breath to settle himself, and puts his hand where Carlos had his hand, so that the tip of his dick is just peeking out from his fist, all slick and wet and shining.

“Good, yes, like that,” Carlos says. Lando keens softly at the praise. His hand is trembling so badly it’s a wonder he can work his phone’s camera at all, but he does, somehow, and sends the approved one off.

What he gets back is not a text, but a photo in return.

When Lando opens it, his eyes go wide. 

“Hmm, looks like she’s really, really enjoying your _ pictures_,” Carlos purrs, low and satisfied, right in his ear. Lando whines a little in the back of his throat, a noise he intends as agreement. "Maybe you should finish it off for her."

And _that_ severs the last thread of his already tenuous grasp on his self-control.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” Lando pants, helpless to stop himself rolling his hips up, pushing into his fist and full-body shuddering with the relief he finds, and it’s fine, whatever, he’ll just finish up business here, and then oh, _ never look Carlos in the eye ever again after this_, move to Estonia and become a hermit, get George to put in a good word for him at Williams, whatever, _ bye _ —

He opens his eyes right as he hits the edge, and sees Carlos looking right at him, and then he comes so hard he sees stars.

He lays there for a moment, heaving for breath, slowly coming down from somewhere high above the stratosphere. After a minute, he’s clear-headed enough to be completely mortified, so, back to business as usual. He intends to immediately enact Operation Fake His Own Death, Step One: Flee The Premises, he really does, except Carlos leans over him, bracing an arm next to his face and caging him in.

He leans in close.

“You know what? I think I could do this professionally,” Carlos says. At this distance, Lando sees how dark and intent Carlos’ eyes are, how flushed his skin is. “And I think I would want you to be my muse.”

“Um,” Lando says, trying to press himself down into the bedding to get away a little. His mind reels, trying to catch up. He gets the feeling, one so unfortunately familiar and common in his everyday existence, that he’d gone right from Point A to Point C, having missed an important step along the way.

Carlos smiles slinkily and holds up his own phone, and —

It’s a picture of him. It’s the _ money shot_, so to speak. He’s framed perfectly on the screen, a sprawl of light and shadow against stark white sheets, eyes closed and mouth parted and face turned slightly into the pillows, like he’s either in intense pain or high ecstasy. He looks absolutely wrecked seven ways to Sunday.

Wow, okay. Fuck.

“I don't ... I don't think we should send that one,” Lando says nervously. It's a good one. The best one of the session, if he had to choose. But it also makes feel embarrassed and kind of shivery in a way he can't explain, and he's not sure he's ready to let someone else see him like that. 

“You are _not_ sending this,” Carlos says adamantly, to which Lando nods in the affirmative, just on principle. He thinks that Carlos could tell him to do anything in that tone of voice and he would do it. Which, upon reflection, is probably not a good thing.

It's how he got into this in the first place, isn't it, because his impulse control is shot where Carlos is concerned.

Carlos looks Lando dead in the eye and draws in so close that he’s speaking his next words almost against Lando’s lips.

“This one is for _ me_.” 

“Okay,” Lando breathes, and licks his lips reflexively, and watches Carlos' eyes go impossibly darker.

His eyes flicker back to the photo on the phone, and he gets an odd sense of disconnect for a second, because he knows it’s him in the photo, but it’s also _ not_, because he looks like some kind of holy virgin-martyr sacrifice Renaissance painting. Like something right out of a pretentious gallery with a million-dollar price tag.

He wonders: is that really how Carlos sees him? Because that’s — that’s — _ something_, he doesn’t know what.

There’s a significant revelation hovering there, but it’s floating just out of his grasp, and as soon as he thinks he has a grasp on it, it’s knocked out of his head by a more urgent matter.

“Wait, hold on,” he says, scrambling for his phone, “what about — ”

“Oh, we can send her more pictures later,” Carlos says, and clamps a hand around his wrist, pinning his arm down to stop him. "Since she clearly has an eye for fine art. But for now ... we need to take some more."

Oh. _Oh. _That — _oh._

"_Fuck_, yeah, okay," Lando says, realization breaking over him in a glorious dawning light. Carlos grins like a cat that's caught the canary, and the gleam in his eyes says _finally_, and he slips in and kisses Lando, hot-mouthed and filthy, stealing his breath like the snap of a shutter, blinding him like a camera flash going off before his eyes. 

**Author's Note:**

> did i consider researching optimal dick pic techniques for maximum fic accuracy? yes. did i actually do that? that’s between me and god, pal.
> 
> hope you enjoyed this, and thank you all for reading!


End file.
